Rock Around the Clock
by usedusernames
Summary: Richie helps the wrong person for the right reasons. This winds up making him worry about what will happen if he doesn't go far enough with a girl who has a reputation. RichiexFonzie slash.


:-:-:-:

Richie Cunningham is, at this particular moment, not nervous. He is not happy, or sad, or angry, or even apathetic. The only thing he is, in fact, as he sits across from Fonzie, sporting a black eye, is gravely embarrassed. He's holding a glass of quickly-melting ice against his face, and deliberately not looking at Fonzie with the one eye he can currently see out of.

"It was just--just a misunderstanding, that's all," Richie says. His gaze flickers to Fonzie's face, then back to the table.

"A misunderstanding?" Fonzie leans back and watches Richie for a long, silent minute. "You disappoint me, Cunningham. When you hide things from me, it makes me think we aren't tight."

At this, Richie's head snaps up, "No! No, we're tight, Fonz. It's just that, uh, well…"

Richie, in his attempt to be inconspicuous, swivels about wildly to see if anyone is watching. Fonzie lazily, and a bit sarcastically, lolls his head to one side and then the other, looking about as well. Richie leans forward, continuing in stage whisper, "There are these guys, see. And they think I'm something--but, but I'm not!--but since they think I am, even though I'm not, they--well, you know." He takes the cup of ice from his face and gestures to his eye miserably.

"And who, exactly, are these guys?"

"I dunno, just a couple of--Oh!" Richie sets the cup on the table, freeing his hands for minute gesticulation, "I don't want you to cream them or anything."

"You don't?"

"No."

"Too bad," Fonzie says, without any inflection in his voice.

"My problem is, how am I gonna tell my folks, huh, Fonzie? I mean, I don't just go around picking fights--"

"You don't pick the fights, Cunningham; the fights pick you."

"Hey, that's real neat!" Richie grins broadly, temporarily distracted, "Haven't I read that someplace before?"

"Bathroom wall."

"Oh, yeah? Sometimes you're a real philosopher, you know that?" Fonzie lifts his eyebrows in vague agreement as though the slightest response from him is gold and Richie's a desperate charity case. Richie's face falls, "Aw, but, Fonzie, what am I gonna do? My mom doesn't like violence and Dad--oh, wow, _Dad_! I'll be grounded for the rest of my life, and then-," Richie continues babbling incessantly. His words start out directed towards Fonzie, but at some point turn inward, leaving him mumbling to himself, holding his head in his hands.

Fonzie watches Richie with unrestrained impatience. He tries hurrying up Richie's speech by waving him on; Richie's both disturbed and distracted enough to pay no heed.

"Hey." Fonzie taps the tabletop meaningfully. At this, Richie reflexively looks up, voice faltering to silence. "Cut out, will you? There's a girl I'm trying to make time with."

Richie glances around the diner while standing up. Even though he sees no girl that he knows isn't going steady, he excuses himself with an, "Oh, yeah, sure! See you, Fonzie."

Fonzie waits for the low hum of the engine of Richie's father's car to die away. With an annoyed sigh, he gets up to leave himself.

Fonzie is completely aware of--and even proud of-- the array of negative adjectives that are associated with his name. They signify something greater than just being a word in the dictionary; they signify his being cool. The coolest. When identified both by parents and by their children, he's a hoodlum; the parents in disgust, and the children in respect, and he appreciates both connotations.

As far as the town goes, he considers himself something of an enigma. An oddity without being a freak show. His priorities and morals just far enough askew not to fit in with society's, but helping out a friend is common ground between himself and everyone else. This is why Fonzie skips work to cruise around the town on his motorcycle, and it is this that makes him most glad to be enigmatic; it allows him to have connections from all groups, from socs to greasers, which means finding Richie's 'guys', even nameless, is easy.

And being the mysterious type means that threatening them is even easier than finding them.

:-:-:-:

The sounds of Nat King Cole pour from the radio as Richie creeps in, as quiet as can be, through the front door.

Attempted silence has a way of drawing parents faster than an actual ruckus, and his own, with the addition of his sister, are crowding Richie before he makes it to the stairs.

"Boy!" Joanie marvels, pushing and prodding her way past her parent's arms to gawk at her brother, "Richie's got a shiner!" She grins toothily up at him, "You sure got beat up, Richie!"

"I did not!" Richie shouts with the indignity that is only possible when being led to the kitchen to be looked after by your mother. He pushes his slim chest out and holds his chin up, jauntily. "I mean, uh, well, I got a couple a pretty good hits in, myself!"

"Richard!" his mother chastises as she pushes him down into a chair. He makes a mumbled, though sincere-sounding, apology. "Here, lift your head up into the light, that's a good boy."

Richie, with his head tipped at an awkward angle as his mother leaves him to wet a rag with cold water, is left staring at his father. There's a strange look on his father's face, one of mixed pride and shame, that makes Richie's face burn hotter--entire face flushed-- than if he'd received just one emotion or the other.

Joanie, nearly bouncing out of her skin, looks up at her father eagerly. "Are you going to punish Richie, Daddy?"

Their father stare moves from Richie to Joanie; Richie finds himself almost grateful for his sister butting in.

His mother comes back and starts washing his face, making gentle mumblings with a sudden, near-tear croon tossed in for good measure. He's not entirely sure why this makes him annoyed, but suddenly he can't keep himself from jerking his head away and yelling at his mother:

"Mom! I'm not a little kid anymore!" His chair slides back a couple inches as he leaps from it before it clatters to the floor, "I'm--Why, I'm a grown man!"

She looks at him, wet rag in one hand, the other hand wiping on her apron absentmindedly. Her eyes throw him, and they all at once shrink him down to feeling sorry for her and rise him up for being enraged because she's sadder than she has any right to be. He hangs back; steps back; frustrated and pitying and therefore more frustrated. Then he sighs resolutely and takes a step toward the adult he claims to be: he rights the chair, sits in it, looks at his mother, and apologizes.

His father watches the scene unfold without reaction, saying only, "We'll talk about this in the morning, Richard," and then, "I'm going to bed, Marion."

:-:-:-:

Richie finds himself in Fonzie's room shortly before one in the morning. How he decided on this, he doesn't know. But he worked up the courage to do so only after hours of talking himself into it, so it seems like a bad idea to chicken out of it now that he's here. Instead he fluffs Fonzie's couch cushions, dusts, and rubs the glass of Fonzie's pictures with his shirt sleeve.

"Hey, did I send for a maid?"

Richie yelps at Fonzie's voice, jumps in surprise, and knocks over a picture in one fluid motion. "Oh, oh, Fonzie. Gee, I'm…" He puts the picture back up. Richie offers several stiff, awkward gestures before shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry, Fonz. I'll just go."

"C'mon, sit down here; ain't no problem accommodating a friend!" Fonzie exclaims, pulling Richie to sit on the couch, "Less I got some girls coming over, in which case don't you come barging in here."

"I wouldn't."

"Good, good. Then what've you got on your mind, there, Cunningham?"

"Oh…_nothing_."

"Nothing."

"Yep. Just your regular, big, ol' nothing." Richie claps his hands in front of him nervously.

"Yeah, well I got something."

"Yeah, Fonz? What's that?"

"I took care of your problem."

Richie leaps to his feet, horrified, "You did what?! Fonzie!"

"You're _welcome_."

"Thank you," Richie responds reflexively, years of politeness ground into him. He shakes his head, "I mean, Fonzie, how could you do that? I told you--you knew-- I wanted to take care of this myself. Boy, Fonzie, I just-- Great! Just great!" Richie, having fallen into dismayed incoherency, decides to shut up. He sits back down on the couch purely because he has no other place to sit down at.

"So, I know how all this hoopla here come to pass."

"_Came_ to pass." Richie pauses as Fonzie lifts his eyebrows. "Sorry."

"_Came_," Fonzie says mockingly, "to pass. What I want to know is the why, because at this moment, the Fonz is confused, and the Fonz don't like to be confused."

"I told you." Richie says, hoping this will be all. He is if not pacified, then resigned to Fonzie being involved. But as Fonzie continues watching him, it becomes obvious that Fonzie won't let up, and a newer eagerness comes over him, "Wow, Fonzie, I got to go! I think my Dad's calling me!" He stands again, but with a stern 'Park it.', Fonzie grabs his arm and pulls him back down.

"Start at the beginning."

"It's a long story!" Richie shouts.

"So I'll get popcorn."

"You'll be bored!"

"So I'll get a good night's sleep."

Richie bows his head, looking at his hands. "I really don't want to, Fonz," he says flatly. He licks his lips. He's not sure how offensive denying the Fonz the back-story is, so he's uncertain how comfortable he's supposed to be when Fonzie wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"Hey, Richie." The words sound understanding, so Richie looks up. "I told them guys to back off, right?"

"Right."

"I got my reputation invested, here. So you just be a good little boy and tell the Fonz what's up."

"Fonzie." Richie is suddenly entirely aware that he's shaking. He can't see it; looking down at his hands, it still seems as though he's sitting still, but he can feel it. He's sitting, knowing he's shaking and knowing Fonzie knows he's shaking. And it's this that makes Richie hyperaware to the fact that Fonzie can beat him up. But he still turns his head, looking at Fonzie and fully expecting a punch to the other side of the face, and says, "I can't."

"You _can't_?"

"I'm sorry."

Richie closes his eyes tightly as Fonzie moves. He's not keen on being hit twice before he's even gone to bed. He can't keep his teeth from chattering. His knees are knocking, his bones feel like water, and he finds himself wondering if Fonzie could murder him with a snap of the fingers.

"Open your eyes, will you?"

Richie opens his eyes obediently. He smiles broadly, "You aren't gonna kill me, Fonzie?"

Fonzie doesn't answer; he gestures to the door with his head, "Cut out."

"But Fonz--"

"Beat it."

Richie stands with surreal slowness, keeping his eyes on Fonzie. He blinks, takes a step back, and goes back to real-time by the time he's out the door; Fonzie doesn't wait for the door to close before he starts to complain:

"Boy, that kid grates on my nerves," Fonzie says to himself, "Try to do a good deed and, _whoa!_, suddenly you're a bad guy." Fonzie cracks his neck, pulls on the collar of his jacket, and continues his soliloquy, "Well, see if I ever help him out again, the **_nerd_.** The Fonz is through. The Fonz is done. The Fonz," Fonzie loses momentum here, mostly because of his lack of an audience. He pulls the cushions off of his couch, "is goin' to bed."

:-:-:-:

Richie's talk with his father is limited to whatever he can squeeze in between bites of cereal before they both leave the house. Most of his side of the conversation is lost, alternately between food, yawns, and his father interrupting. Eventually Richie's left barely understanding himself, not-quite-entirely certain of how much he contributed to being grounded for two weeks.

But his grounding allows Arnold's until five o'clock, so he's there almost as soon as he's swallowed the last spoonful of cornflakes.

"Fonzie!" he yells, heading over to the pinball machine; he waves in greeting even though the Fonz can't see him.

"You hear somethin'?" Fonzie asks Potsie and Ralph.

"Sure; it's Richie!" Potsie says, grandly missing the point of the question. "Hey, Rich, what happened to your eye?"

"Not now, Pots…" Richie mumbles.

But Potsie continues with, "Boy, what a chick magnet you've got! Babes really fall all over injured guys! Man, I'm jealous of you!"

"Keep it up, and soon you won't have nothing to be jealous over, if you get my drift," Fonzie tells him severely. There's a brief, awe-filled silence that's taken up only by the sounds of a vibrant pinball game. After a respectful amount of quiet, Richie clears his throat and raises his voice:

"Fonz, I gotta talk to you. I thought it over, and I decided that I'd--"

"Beat it, Kid, you're cramping my style," Fonzie says. There's an undertone of pings as the ball bounces up and down.

Richie sighs and leans across the pinball machine. "You know Bernard Franklin?"

Fonzie's score continues climbing, even with the game covered. "Yeah, so?"

"That's why."

"That's why what?"

"That's _why_, Fonzie."

Fonzie looks at him, then catches the meaning. He steps back from the pinball machine; the pings stop as the ball slides down the hole. Richie straightens, and they watch each other in a strangely loquacious silence until Fonzie tells Ralph and Potsie to take a hike. Richie grins at Potsie sympathetically as they walk off. "You mad, Fonz?" he asks, question directed to his shoes.

"Nah, I knew you'd crack sooner or later. Just so happens to be sooner." Fonzie glances at Ralph and Potsie, still hanging around hopefully, just far enough away as to not to be hit. Fonzie rolls his eyes and puts a guiding hand on Richie's back. "Step into my office, Cunningham."

Richie enters wordlessly; his need to talk is lost somewhere between the pinball machine and the door labeled 'Guys' swinging shut behind them. He wonders if Fonzie's fairly conditional friendship is worth embarrassment. He realizes just as Fonzie speaks again that he's embarrassed himself for less.

"What's this about Bernard Franklin?"

"You hear what they've been saying about him?"

"I ain't one for gossip, Red. I got better things to do with my lips, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, Fonz, I hear you. Well, it's just that they were saying--They were saying that he's…funny."

"Funny."

Richie's quiet for a minute. "Queer."

"And you said he ain't one?"

Richie scuffs his shoe. He doesn't know exactly what to gauge the Fonz's response by; he's not sure if queers and blacks fall under the same category or not, or if you can be fine with one and not the other. He's never thought of it that deeply before because he's never had to. People are people, and he'd never actually been beaten up for helping one before. He dismisses Fonzie's question uneasily, " I figure, he's a friend, I should help him out…right?"

"Sure," Fonzie says. He doesn't bring up that Bernard Franklin is an acquaintance at best, a stranger at worst, and that Richie's obligation came--not from being a friend--but rather from being a goody-two-shoes.

"So I went over there," Richie reenacts this part, bolstered by Fonzie's approval: chest out, arms swinging, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he strolls around the bathroom. "And-- and I said…" he deflates miserably, "nothing. I totally chickened out, Fonz."

"Hey, that's cool--"

Richie interrupts without thinking about it, "And then one of them hit me. And I _fell down_. One punch, Fonz! One punch!" he hits the mirrored version of himself with an open palm. He uses the sink for support, frustrated. With awkward silence hanging, he draws in on himself. He folds his arms and skulks around slowly.

"Did you or did you not try your best?"

"Sure," Richie says scornfully, "and my best included being knocked out with one punch."

"Not all of us can be Brando." Fonzie pushes Richie away from his preferred mirror to inspect his hair. "That what got you bugged, being knocked out?"

Richie grabs a paper towel to wipe his sweaty hands on. "No, I guess not."

There's a list of things Fonzie is known for, and patience is not on it. "Then _what_?"

"You don't think--"

"Think what, Rich?" Potsie interrupts; Richie turns to look at him.

"Oh." Richie glances at Fonzie desperately, then thinks of a lie on his own. "I was just asking Fonzie if he didn't think Elvis would burn out before he's thirty, that's all."

Potsie gives him a crooked, knowing grin. "No way; Presley's got it made in the shade. You hear his new tune?"

Richie watches Fonzie over Potsie's shoulder. There's no response from the Fonz, and Potsie's looking at him intently, so he answers slowly, "… 'Mystery Train'?"

Potsie nods, "That's it. Hey, Richie, you going to the sock hop Saturday?"

"I can't, I'm grounded. Besides, Chuck's coming up to visit this weekend; I'd probably have to hang around the house anyway." Richie shrugs loosely. Fonzie, becoming bored of the conversation, puts a hand on both Potsie and Richie's backs and escorts them out of his office. They respond simultaneously with a 'See you, Fonz,' half of it said after the door shuts, and continue talking.

"You can't miss out, Rich! This is going to be the social event of the season!"

"I thought that was the Chuck Berry concert."

"It was! Now this is. Know why?" Richie shakes his head, just barely tolerating Potsie's enthusiasm. "You know Beverly Andrews?"

"Oh, sure. She's nice."

"Nice!" Potsie, almost falling with fake shock, grabs Richie dramatically for support. He recollects himself with some effort. "Boy, have you got a lot to learn. She digs tough guys, Rich."

"So?"

"So? She wants to go with you! I told you you were date bait!"

Ralph wanders over, being just enough of a spectator to the conversation to make Richie feel ashamed of his answer. "I can't go."

"Sure you can!" Potsie insists happily, "Just sneak out. Ralph and I will pick you up, right Ralph?" Ralph pops a piece of gum in presumably affirmative response. "There! You see? It's settled." Potsie slaps Richie between the shoulder blades, grinning foolishly.

"Pots, I can't. I just can't do anything crazy this weekend."

"Us, crazy?" Ralph exaggeratedly gestures to himself. "Please; I've seen 'Tell Your Children'."

Richie grins appreciatively.

Potsie sticks with his guns. Namely, he sticks with girls: "I hear she'll go all the way to third on the first date!"

Richie's mouth goes dry and his hands get sweaty. He makes a few soundless attempts at speech, waving one hand wildly enough to look rather like a muted politician. He pushes past the lump in his throat with a cracking voice: "Well, I mean, m-maybe, just for an hour…"

:-:-:-:

Not talking to his friends for any great length of time is, under normal circumstance, strange. But with Chuck taking an early train home, it's easy for Richie to become antisocial for a day and a half. It's deep into Friday evening by the time he knocks on Fonzie's door. But like always-- "Fonzie's free,"-- there's time made for him.

"I'll only stay a minute, Fonz," Richie promises. He goes directly to his bragging rights, "I'm taking out Beverly Andrews tomorrow night."

"Hey, good choice." Fonzie gives an approving thumbs up.

"She goes to third on the first date." Even as he says it, he feels awful, feels like he should go and apologize to Beverly for spoiling her reputation like that. But he just keeps grinning like it's a fact and doesn't backpedal on it.

Fonzie smirks. "Yeah, I know."

Richie's face falls in surprise. "Potsie wasn't kidding? Uh, uh, I mean, I know, too."

Fonzie's look is at best condescending, but Richie isn't paying enough attention to be especially offended. Before, whatever Beverly was known for was one part rumor and one part Potsie's wild imagination. But having it made fact by someone he trusts in womanly pursuits makes Richie feel weirdly self-conscious. He doesn't know what he'd been hoping for, exactly, because in truth if she didn't go beyond necking, he wouldn't say she had. Still, if she was the sort to go further than that, he knew he wasn't comfortable enough to, and he still wouldn't be able to say they had.

It's not for lack of wanting, so much as there's an equal amount of wanting to wait.

Since she's willing, though, he knows he doesn't have a choice but to be willing, too.

Because, otherwise, he knows exactly what they'll say about it.

"Yo, Cunningham--"

"I'm not a queer!" Richie shouts suddenly, torn from his thoughts.

"Didn't know I said you were."

"_You_ didn't. _They_ did."

"_They_ who?" Fonzie stands suddenly from his couch. He doesn't fight much--threatens often, but almost never actually gets into brawls-- but it seems here that he'd would be willing to.

"You already took care of them, Fonz," Richie says under his breath. He's stuck with the awkward feeling of gratitude for Fonzie handling the problem and the shame of not taking care of it himself.

"Oh, those guys. Sure I did." Fonzie laughs. "No sweat."

He's still considering how to answer this when Chuck calls for him. Richie turns, honestly expecting for an instant to see his brother in the same room.

It registers slowly that Chuck's voice is coming from outside, his question if Richie wants to play a game of twenty-one half muffled under the echo as a basketball hits pavement.

Richie doesn't excuse himself as he leaves, but Fonzie is too thrilled with his own good deed to notice.

:-:-:-:

"Hey, Potsie, Ralph, Beverly."

Richie doesn't recognize either Ralph's or Potsie's dates offhand, but he waves to them for politeness' sake. He lifts himself into the back of Ralph's car with Potsie, grinning to himself with mild appreciation at Ralph's ability to sit, squished up front, with three attractive girls; it's a nice enough night that he can look at that with fondness. He's not even particularly affronted about the fact that Beverly's flirting with Ralph--after all, Ralph's got the car; Richie can't even offer Beverly a ride on the handlebars of his bike, it makes since that she'd flirt with the driver. Potsie elbows Richie harshly in the ribs, and with a yelp and a 'What'd you do that for!?" later, Potsie explains that Beverly _wants_ him to care about her flirting with Ralph.

"Hey, Beverly?"

"Yes, Richie?" She turns charmingly in her seat and bats her eyelashes at him.

Richie stares at her blankly. "Just a second." He whispers to Potsie, "I don't have anything I want to say to her!"

"Say it anyway!" is Potsie's advice.

"Uh, you look real nice tonight, Beverly."

"Thank you, Richie." She seems to mean it sincerely, or at least as sincerely as his 'nice tonight', so they smile at each other over the seat. She offers him her hand and he takes it.

Richie tries once or twice to let go on the way to the dance; his palm is sweaty and Potsie's laughing at him, but every time he manages to free himself Beverly snatches his hand again, so he relents. With Beverly's insistence of holding hands, the night has instantly become longer.

He regrets being talked into this, even for--maybe especially for--a girl who will go to third on a first date.

"I hope someone spikes the punch," he whispers to Potsie.

:-:-:-:

By the time Richie gets home, he's drunk enough off of spiked punch to have forgotten that he wanted it. He also has locked himself out of the house, which he finds considerably funnier than most of his night. He doesn't yell or try to go through the window, which he could get through with minimal effort were he not also in supply of minimal balance.

Instead he goes to Fonzie's place, stumbling in without knocking. Fonzie had been on the bed, necking with a girl that Richie vaguely recalls is a 'Dorothy'. Richie is completely unaware that the reason they're no longer necking is because of him, and he continues standing, wavering, just past the door.

Fonzie and Dorothy get off of the bed; Richie's gaze moves to them, then past them.

"Hey, Dorothy, go out and find a yellow brick road."

Dorothy beams, "Sure, Fonzie." and bounces out the door.

"Bye, Dorothy!" Richie yells after her. "Shh, shh," he hushes himself a second later.

"What, might I ask, are you doing here, Cunningham?"

Richie doesn't answer the question because he doesn't know it existed. "I couldn't do it, Fonz."

"Do what?"

"Beverly." Richie trips forward, somehow propelling himself far enough to land on Fonzie's bed. "She really wanted to, Fonz, no kidding. But I, I dunno, I couldn't. I tried to, Fonzie, really, but I--" he cuts himself off, "Do you think I was too forward with her, Fonz?"

Fonzie doesn't bother stifling his laughter. "No way, Red."

"That's good. I'd hate to have been too forward. Hey, Fonz?"

"What?"

Richie smacks the mattress of the fold-out bed, "Wasn't this a couch before?"

Fonzie rubs his eyes tiredly, moving back to the edge of the bed. This time it's Fonzie who doesn't answer, but Richie has adapted an interesting new style of conversation between them that only partially involves Fonzie, anyway.

"Hey, Fonz?"

"_What_?"

"Do you s'pose…maybe I am? Maybe I didn't really want to go and neck Beverly. Maybe I really want to neck with--with--with-- I don't know, Potsie. Do you suppose so, Fonzie?"

"If you were, I think you'd try for somethin' better than _Potsie_." Fonzie, with both hands, makes a gesture to himself. "Whoa."

"You, Fonz?" Richie staggers to his feet, finding and inhabiting the space between Fonzie and the bed.

His mind knows that Fonzie is just being Fonzie. Just being egotistical and vain and overconfident. That this isn't really an invitation to kiss the Fonz. His mind even knows he wouldn't normally much want to kiss the Fonz. But at this moment, his mind is completely detached from his body, a separate entity entirely, and he is left making decisions without it. So when he leans forward and kisses Fonzie, it is a mindless, thoughtless action.

The fact that Fonzie kisses back would be surprising, were Richie a few cups of punch shorter and able to be surprised.

He had fully suspected that the Fonz would be a fantastic kisser, based solely off of girls' reactions, and he now decides it's true. Fonz is more skilled than Beverly. Richie doesn't think Fonzie is especially more good-looking than Beverly, but the stimulus is there, even if the attraction isn't.

"Fonz," Richie murmurs. He feels his Adam's apple bob against Fonzie's lips. "You've done this before."

"This? Naw. But I figure, it don't got to be the same model to be driven the same way."

"Oh--oh…" Richie becomes aware--half-aware, really-- without any ready-made response that he can remember, that Fonzie's hand has most definitely gone down the front of his pants. He knows that Beverly didn't try this, and hates her a bit for not doing so; if she'd been the one to have taken charge, if she hadn't left it all to him, then maybe he wouldn't be here with the Fonz.

"Fonzie, does this mean we're…?"

"I ain't gonna take you to the policeman's ball, if that's what you mean."

Richie doesn't know what he meant. His hands move up Fonzie's spine, up the back of Fonzie's neck, and-- "Hey, watch the hair, Cunningham."-- "Sorry, Fonz"-- "S'allright, just watch it." --then slide back down as he rocks gracelessly into Fonzie's hand.

Richie says, "Fonzie." as he comes. He doesn't shout, or moan, or anything that sounds excited or awestruck at all; he just says it, perhaps his voice a little tight, a little breathy, but overall, just plain 'Fonzie'.

Fonzie has never before, in such a situation, been just plain 'Fonzie', and he doesn't know how to excuse it.

"You always quiet like that, Cunningham?"

It's here that Richie's face goes red. He turns around, almost falling onto the bed, to re-zip his pants.

He's just about to try to talk when Dorothy comes back in, saying she never did find that yellow brick road.

:-:-:-:


End file.
